


World Politics

by memes-and-dying (deerstorm)



Category: Alternate universe - politics - Fandom, World politics - Fandom
Genre: Adultery, American Politics, Angst, Crack, Espionage, Intrigue, Love Triangles, M/M, Memes, Politics, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerstorm/pseuds/memes-and-dying
Summary: We’re all familiar with the fast-paced changes and clashes of global politics... but when politics become something more, how will world leaders learn to manage their relationships?save me from myself !





	1. Prologue: The Oval Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life is death

JUNE 2015  
Vladimir Putin, President of Russia, stood in the centre of the Oval Office, staring right back, pale lips twisted into a faint smirk.  
"Putin,” bit out Barack, incredulous. His voice was hushed. "How did you get in here? What are you-"  
Vladimir put a finger over Obama's lips. The smug look faded off of his face and he smiled with thin lips. "It doesn't matter... Barack," he whispered.  
Barack fell silent as the older man moved his long, elegant finger from his lips to his chin. The President of the United States of America shivered almost imperceptibly as Vladimir stroked his dark skin, tilting his head slightly.  
"Putin," Obama breathed, voice barely a whisper. "Vladimir... you can't..." But his resolve was weak, and it was chipping away bit by bit under the gaze of Putin's icy eyes. The Russian President smirked silently as his delicate hands made their way slowly down Barack's torso to settle upon his waist. He leaned forward.  
"Vladimir..." managed Obama softly, then sharper: "Vladimir!" Someone's footsteps were approaching quickly.  
Vlad stiffened and he pulled away, moving quickly out of sight. It was just in time, too – the doors to the Oval Office swung open not a moment later. In strode a sharply-dressed man, a man with a confident stride, a man with a wide chest and strong arms and, most importantly, the most immaculately styled hair that Putin had ever seen. The Russian's eyes narrowed in jealousy as the man looked at his Barack. He knew that look – it was the look that he himself gave to the other President. He didn't recognize this man... could it be that he and Barack were...?  
Putin's suspicions were confirmed when the man with the beautiful hair stepped closer to Obama – too close – and touched his face in the spot where Putin's own fingers had been moments earlier. His ice-blue eyes widened. What did this man think he was doing? He couldn't see Barack's reaction; the man was blocking his view.  
It became clear soon, though, that Barack loved it. When the stranger stepped back, his dark face was flushed and his eyes were bright. Putin barely resisted springing out to throttle the other man.  
"Don- Mr. Trump!" Obama's voice rang through the Office, sharp and scandalized. "This is- this is inappropriate behaviour! What are you- you can't- not now!" His last two words were quietly hissed, almost secretively, but Putin still caught them. He frowned.  
"I know you love it," interrupted Donald in an erotically raspy voice. He pushed past Barack and sat in the president's chair, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head, a smugly satisfied look on his face. Barack glared at him, but he did nothing. Vladimir hated him, and by the looks of it Barack did too, but the American President still seemed to... want him, to love him.  
Barack shooed Donald out of the Oval Office after a few minutes. Vladimir couldn't tear his eyes away when Donald stole a kiss. He noticed every detail – how he gripped the back of Obama's head, how the President ran his hands through the pale man’s luscious hair, how Barack melted into him... then Donald left, shooting a grin back at Obama. The president sank into his chair, frustrated and annoyed, but deep down he knew that he was in love, and Vlad knew it too. He could see it in the other's deep brown eyes.  
He emerged from his hiding place, stiff and rigid but dignified as ever as he adjusted his tie, even though he wanted to fall into the other President's arms and hold him. He knew that he couldn't do that anymore, though. He raised one eyebrow and said nothing.  
Barack put his head in his hands, not looking at Putin. "P- Vladimir... Vlad, I- I'm so sorry, I..."  
"How long?" Vladimir's voice was thick with anger and sadness. The words felt strange in his throat. Obama glanced up at him, then looked down again. That was all the answer Putin needed. A sudden rage bubbled up inside the Russian, a mad frenzied anger that he wished he could unleash. He wished he could grab Obama and punch him full in the face, but... he knew he couldn't.  
"You... don't get to be upset," Vladimir said. His voice was calm and soft and cold as his pale eyes. "You lied to me, Barack. You were with this man, and you did not tell me." Obama didn't even try to deny it, to say anything. The rage flared up, and Putin wanted to scream. His voice grew more heated with every word, but none of his words burned like Barack's betrayal. "You lied. You are vermin, Barack."  
Putin took a deep breath. His next words would be pointed.  
"I... loved... you."  
As he watched tears begin to leak from the corners of Barack's eyes, Putin realized with a sudden jolt that he was crying too.  
"Good day," Vlad said, cool and collected once again, hiding his shattered heart behind a fortress of icy hatred, "President Obama."  
And when he spoke those words, his former love's formal title, they both knew that it was over, and that they could never have it again.  
Putin paused mid-stride toward the door. He wanted this to sting as much as possible, to make Obama feel a fraction of the pain he did.  
"By the way," he said, casual, not looking back, "was he worth it, this Trump?"  
A long pause.  
A quiet "Yes."  
It hit Vladimir like a sledgehammer. He wished he had never asked. He wished he could rewind time. He wished he could love Barack again and he realized that he still did, no matter what he told himself. He wished he could throw himself into Barack's arms and hug him tightly.  
Instead, he gathered up what few scraps of dignity he still had and kept walking, out of the Oval Office and out of Barack's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next: will Vladimir make a comeback? will Donald keep playing the field? yes and yes I hate myself


	2. 1: Trump’s Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald finds himself thrust into the hot, sweaty world of global politics. How will he handle two suitors - one from the north and one from the south?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> m y life is in shambles

JANUARY 2016  
This was it.  
"The time is now," murmured Justin Trudeau, Canadian Prime Minister and winner of 2015's December world leader beauty pageant, run by Trump himself. His social media assistants hid in the shadows around him, he knew. It was a little bit unnerving looking around and seeing no one even as the Snapchatters were beginning to record, as the Instagrammers got their cameras ready, as the Facebookers typed out their posts, and as the Viners wept quietly in the back of the room.  
Suddenly, a flicker of bright orange caught his eye. He couldn't resist a small, sharp inhale as another man strode toward him.  
It was him.  
It was...  
The Donald.  
Trudeau's eyes raked critically over his wispy blond hair – it looks like someone used the blur tool on it in Photoshop, he thought – his blue suit, his deep crimson tie, his poorly spray-tanned face, and his whitish-pink lips, pursed into an almost duck-bill-like shape. As the President approached, Trudeau braced himself, then stuck out his hand rigidly. Donald stepped forward to grasp it. This wasn’t their first meeting, but it might be the most important yet.  
The seventy-one-year-old's tiny little hand had all the texture and warmth of sat-upon leather. To his own surprise, Justin felt himself relax into Trump's firm grip, well-manicured nails resting against the Donald's orange-tinted skin.  
"Welcome, Justin," said the President in a low, rasping voice. "You know, let me tell you, Justin. This, this meeting, it's gonna be the greatest. We're gonna take this meeting and we're going to meet. And the meeting will be great, we know how to meet down here – and it's going to be just a huge meeting, just so great. So great... just, you know, just so wonderful. The best. Let me tell you."  
Trudeau looked up at the Donald as his free hand smoothed a stray lock of shiny hair back into place. Somehow the taller man – clearly so genuine, so sincere, with such a steady voice and such certainty in his words – didn't seem as repulsive and leathery as he had a few moments ago.  
Maybe climate change could wait. He was sure Alberta wouldn’t mind.  
-  
"I built a wall around my emotions." Donald turned from the window to look at Jose. "But you... you illegally immigrated... right into my heart."  
With a shock, Jose realized that there were tears shining in the Donald's bright eyes. The President's next words were a choked whisper. "And I know I can never deport you."  
Jose stepped forward to catch Trump in his arms, holding him close. "That's good," he said softly. "Because I don't want to be deported."  
Donald turned away again, overcome with emotion.  
“Please, just one date,” Jose said, voice gentle and pleading. “It doesn’t have to be publicized - it could even be in your own hotel.”  
“Fine,” whispered Donald. “But you’re paying.”  
-  
"Oh, Donald, I've been a bad, bad, hombre," murmured Jose seductively as the donkey he rode trotted up to the tycoon. "Come on, you sexy Cheeto. I want your Trump Tower."  
It had been a romantic date, and now the evening was heating up like the planet. Emmanuel Macron watched secretly from a window as Donald stood there rigidly, donkey swiping its slimy tongue over his cheek. "Jose, we can't. Why do you insist on this? Take something seriously for once."  
The sly grin slipped from Jose's rugged Mexican face. "Okay. Sure. I'll be serious. I... I'm here today because, well..."  
Jose jumped from his mount and kneeled on the ground, eyes shining. "Will you marry me?"  
Trump recoiled. "What?!" he bellowed. "No! Firstly, Jose, you know full well that Mike and I outlawed that, and secondly... I won't be the green card to some Mexican!"  
Jose's expression sobered in an instant. His hopeful expression faded, and his mouth twisted sourly.  
"Wait... no. No, that isn't what I meant... I'm sorry, Jose. I didn't mean it. You know that I blurt things out and regret them later."  
"So you didn't mean to call me 'some Mexican'?"  
"I never said that."  
"You just did, ten seconds ago!"  
"Prove it." Donald crossed his arms.  
Jose sighed. "Look, Donald. I forgive you."  
"Good. And... you know we can't be married."  
"I want to be your fourth! Please."  
Donald turned away. "No."  
"But..."  
"I'll have you deported tomorrow if you don't stop this!"  
Flashing brown eyes turned on the Donald. "Fine!" hissed Jose. "You don't care about me, so I don't care about being deported. Send me back for all I care! At least in Mexico I'll have Enrique."  
With that, the Mexican whirled on his heel and stormed from the room.  
-  
A short time later, Jose met with the President of Mexico. Together, they began to plan a wedding... and something else – something much, much bigger.  
-  
"Donald?"  
Trudeau peeked into the Oval Office. It had been several months since their meeting, and they had developed a friendly bond of sorts. Friendship, though, didn't explain the way Justin's breath caught in his throat whenever he looked at the orange man, the way his heart fluttered, the way his tie suddenly felt too tight around his neck, almost as though he was being murdered by a hired assassin... of love.  
(Secretly, Justin wished someone would make an attempt on his life. Seriously! Fidel got, like, 600! Why doesn't anyone care about Canada?)  
(a/n: i wish someone would assassinate me) But the Canadian leader had to shove those feelings down. He loved his wife too much to betray her, even though Trump's inexplicable allure seemed to draw him closer every time he saw the man.  
"Donald?" he called again.  
Then, he saw him.  
He had to blink a few times. Was this really him? Could it be that Donald had forgone his tan and was embracing a natural tone?  
With his spray-tan gone, Trump looked...  
"Nice," breathed Trudeau, cheeks flushed pink, eyes locked on Donald's aghast and vulnerable face.  
He realized his mistake a moment later.  
"What the- I- well! Oh, Mike will fix you, you filthy- I- argh!" blustered the formerly orange man, but his own blush betrayed him.  
Justin moved forward. "Donald... the environmental policies, the economy, the foreign relations... they don't matter anymore.  
"This is all that matters."  
-  
Trudeau tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes down, averted, looking anywhere but there, but eventually he couldn't resist the urge. His gaze darted for a second to Trump's – and stuck.  
Tension flared to life immediately between then, filling the room. Still, Justin couldn't keep his gaze away from the small patch of exposed white skin around the Donald's eyes. He noted that Trump had reapplied his tan even stronger.  
Since Trudeau had tried to make his move, days ago in the Oval Office, the demagogue had avoided him like the plague. He was unusually quiet, too, barely even vomiting out any tweets about China.  
Trudeau was suddenly struck by a pang of regret. Even if Donald didn't like him, he wanted the best for the man. He hoped that the President would be okay.  
-  
"Oh, Donald, it is okay," said Vladimir, caressing the man's basketball-like head, running his stubby fingers tenderly over bumpy orange cheeks. His thin lips were pursed outward, almost in a pout. "It will be alright. We will be wery good. You... are da only one for me. I will... ehh... call off KGB. We will... make Amerika great again... together." His thickly-accented voice was filled with softness and warmth, a sharp contrast to the harsh cold of his mother country.  
Donald felt so alone. Barack hadn’t worked out. Jose had left him, and he had rejected Justin. Maybe... just maybe... it would be okay with Vlad.  
Putin smirked maliciously. His next words were whispered.  
"Now I heff him totally under my control."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in later for the thrilling sequel! What are Jose and Enrique planning? What will Vlad do for revenge against Donald for stealing Barack? Find out maybe never! stop me


	3. Double Agents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When secret agent Vasili Smirnov is sent to America by Kim Jong-un, how will Vladimir and Donald receive him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a mess my dudes

“How dare he!”  
Kim Jong-un, Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, slammed his meaty fist onto the wooden desk in front of him, cheeks wobbling healthily with the force. He took a deep breath in and lifted his thick fingers to run them through his hair, which naturally grew in a perfect fade.  
“Who allowed this?” he demanded, whirling in a slow and superhumanly coordinated shuffle on the officers standing ramrod straight behind him. “Who let this stupid tangerine Tweet out this monstrosity?!”  
His general’s eyes darted nervously from Kim Jong-un’s sausagelike yet perfectly formed finger, pointed at a glowing screen, to his leader’s angry communist eyes – though despite the anger, they commanded awe and loyalty, as a great leader’s spirit shone through them.  
“I’m sorry, sir - it must have been a mistake-“  
“No mistakes!” shouted Kim Jong-un, Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, in a bass tone that melted the hearts of all women. “No. This is unacceptable. Clearly,” he continued, glaring beautifully at the assembled government officials, “someone is not on my side.”  
Gazes shifted to an expressionless, shadowy man in the back of the group. His stony features were unmoving beneath the large, raised scar across his face. After seconds of excruciating silence, a timid voice came from the general. “Perhaps... this man? Supreme Leader?”  
“How dare you! This man, this loyal True Korean patriot Vasili, received a horrible scar in battle, fool!” Kim Jong-un’s eyebrows furrowed with power and elegance. “He is our most trusted agent. In fact... I will send him to America to sabotage Donald and brainwash him before I meet with the orange monster!”  
The officers shifted uneasily, murmuring and whispering, shooting sidelong glances at the man, but it was done. The order was given.  
Vasili was going to America.  
-  
Rumbling wheels touched down on the runway, jostling Vasili awake. One eye cracked open below a bushy eyebrow as the hand that clutched a large, serrated knife moved up, ready. He sneezed suddenly, eyes wide open, hand jerking erratically and knife slitting the throat of the groggy woman beside him.  
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, glancing at her shocked face. “Wait-“  
He got up from his seat, waving his knife lazily in the direction of the flight attendant who protested, and flipped open the carryon shelf. After a quick rummage through her bag, he sighed in relief. Tossing aside her driver’s license, he sat down again. “Just a Turk.”  
The plane came to a stop a moment later, and Vasili was soon in the airport, yawning widely as a TSA agent eyed him suspiciously.  
“Excuse me sir - what’s that knife you’re holding? And why is it covered in bl-“  
“Second amendment rights,” he responded blandly. She peered at his face, eyes narrowing.  
“You’re Caucasian, right?” she asked, cautiously.  
“Da - uh, yes. Yes.”  
Suspicion flashed in her eyes. “What language was that?”  
He blinked. “American! It was American! You see, I am from Alaska, and I’ve just finished killing - um - Sarah Palin. Hence the blood. Da.”  
“Oh! Oh, well why didn’t you just say so?” The agent’s demeanour was suddenly friendly and relaxed. “Welcome back to the motherland, sir. I trust you’ll find your return to the biggest country on Earth comfortable! Let me take your bags.”  
As she picked up his suitcase, it fell open, spilling guns and grenades and ammunition across the carpet. She paused, and Vasili opened his mouth, ready to invent a quick justification.  
He didn’t have to, though; she spoke first. “Oh! I see. These are from killing... Arabs? In, you know, Iran, ISIS, Israel, Africa...”  
“Yes, yes, absolutely! Those damnable, eh, Arabs, yes. Kaboom! All dead. No worries.”  
She led Vasili through the airport, chatting all the while as he followed, confusion etched into his every feature.  
-  
It was a quarter to five in Washington, D.C., when the doors of the Oval Office were kicked open loudly. Armed to the teeth, clutching an AR in his right hand and a pickaxe in his left, Vasili Smirnov burst through the entrance.  
To his surprise, Donald Trump was not alone. Instead, he was passionately kissing a blonde woman as an angry thumb looked on - no, when Vasili looked more carefully, he could see that it was simply a thumblike man.  
“Oh, Ivanka,” grunted Donald when the woman turned to look at the intruder. Vasili recognized her from his briefings as none other than Tomi Lahren, Republican extraordinaire! And the other man... Vasili squinted. The thumb was, in fact, Alex Jones of InfoWars! The three most important American politicians and public figures, according to their opinions, and he had them trapped in one room.  
He held up his gun hand. “American scum! I have you here at mercy of automatic rifle-“  
“Actually,” cut in Tammy, “it’s an Armitage rifle. Easy mistake to make if you’re a Dem shill libtar-“  
“Shut up!” hissed Vasili. “It doesn’t matter what it’s called, because soon it will put bullet through your capitalist brain!”  
“I just thought it was important for lefties like you to know,” said Toni. “It’s all mental illness anyway. I bet you voted for Crooked Hillary.”  
“Say that again,” said Donald.  
“Crooked Hillary?” Terri asked.  
“Again.”  
“Crooked Hillary,” said Tara once more.  
Vasili interrupted them before it could get too much weirder, waving his AR. “The point is, you capitalists are under my control!”  
“Not so fast!” Alex Jones whipped out a pistol from his waistband. With an inhuman roar, filled with rage and humanity, he charged toward Vasili, firing wildly into the air. The Korean agent pushed him easily aside, kicking him through the window. Soon, he was pointing his gun right at Tess and Donald.  
“You will be coming with me now.”  
He manhandled them out the door, gun held to Tina’s head and pickaxe to Trump’s. They were moving down the hallway when suddenly, Vasili saw something that made him stop in his tracks, a man with cold blue eyes that narrowed and then widened, pupils contracting.  
“Vladimir?!”   
"Vasili?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does Vlad know Vasili? How will Jong-un deal with the discovery of his spy? And most importantly, how will Vlad react to the discovery of Tomi and Donald together? Stay tuned for all this and the reappearance of an old flame in Chapter 4, coming soon!


	4. Intrigue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alleged murderer and a ravenous beast stumble upon a meeting as sinister as it is Caucasian, while Vasili receives shocking news and a familiar face returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew the stories back, wish it wasnt

It was a dark and quiet night, silence broken only by the sound of floorboards creaking underfoot as two suit-clad men crept through a long hallway. Shooting each other uneasy glances now and then, they continued down the hall toward a door, from underneath which light spilled and behind which voices whispered.  
When they reached the door, the first man turned to the second and raised his hand in a signal. The other nodded back, and leaned down to peer through the keyhole of the doorknob. He straightened back up and motioned toward the ceiling.  
“What?” hissed the first man, almost inaudibly.  
The second repeated the gesture, more vigorously.  
“That’s not- hold on-“  
The first man pulled a small handbook from his pocket and began to rifle through, beady eyes darting back and forth across the pages. “Chris, that isn’t one of the sign-“  
He was cut off, though, at the crunch of Chris’s chewing. The larger man had produced a bag of M&Ms, and was stuffing fistfuls at a time into his cavernous mouth.  
“Chris!”  
“Ted!” replied Chris mockingly through a mouthful of candy.  
Just then, both men seemed to simultaneously remember their mission, and turned back to the door. Fortunately, their raised voices hadn’t seemed to reach the room’s occupants. Ted crouched down this time to steal a look through the keyhole, pressing his ear against it a second later. His eyes widened.  
“Chris, this is it. This is what we need.”  
*  
_The bushy-browed man ran his hand through his thinning white hair, sweat shining on his pale forehead, just as six identical men did the same. "Now, listen, everyone, listen carefully," he said. "We've got to take this man down, just like we took down Dirty Hillary. We have to lie here, people. We have to invent the most insane allegations, the most preposterous stories, the most-"_  
_"Come on, Rex," cut in the fourth of the identical men. "Don't you think we should be more honest?"_  
_"Absolutely not, Bannon," sneered a long-haired woman seated in the corner. "What's a little white lie? Besides, I don't see how you of all people-"_  
_"Now just wait a second there, Hicks! Are you trying to imply that Breitbart News is anything less than-"_  
_"Yes, I am, Bannon."_  
_Steve brandished a stubby finger at Hope. "You-!"_  
_"Cut it out, guys!" cried a younger man in a blue suit. "Now, listen, if there's one thing I've learned from my time under Donald, it's to never give up. And that's just the approach to take."_  
_The group was silent._  
_One by one, everyone began to pointedly ignore Anthony Scaramucci._  
_Suddenly, from the dark shadows across the room, a grating voice spoke. "Rex Tillerson is right," it said. "We have to lie. But we don't just have to lie - we have to misrepresent."_  
_Sean Spicer took a step from the darkness. "Who's with me?"_  
_"Hey, I loved you on Saturday Night Live!" exclaimed Reince Priebus._  
_"Shut up, traitor," hissed Sean._  
_"We're all... kind of traitors here, if you hadn't noticed, Sean," pointed out James Comey. "No, no, I say we do our homework. Really look into the things we're planning before we do them. We need to carefully examine-"_  
_"Did you even work for Trump?" asked Michael Flynn in disbelief. "Ever? We have to lie. I'm with Spicey here."_  
_"So it's settled, then," declared Rex from his place at the front of the room. "We lie. And Donald will fall!"_  
*  
Ted withdrew from the keyhole, ears trembling in shock. He turned to Chris. "Wh- well, what do you make of all this, Chris?" he asked. "We need something to report back to Donald. I don't know what to... what to say."  
"I dunno," replied his partner. He shook out the empty bag of M &Ms, disappointment flashing across his moon-like face. "I think-"  
Just then, the door slammed open, and a suspicious face appeared in the doorway. "I'm _not_ the Zodiac Killer!" blurted out Ted, by instinct.  
"What are you doing here?" asked the man at the door. "Are you here for... the libertarian meeting?"  
" _Libertarian?!_ " escaped Ted's lips before he could stop himself. Chris mouthed the word, frowing at the syllables. "What- what kind of-"  
The door slammed again.  
"Let's get out of here, Ted," Chris mumbled.  
-  
Vasily stared into Vladimir’s eyes. “President- you know my name? But how? I-“  
But he was cut off. “Give me Donald,” bit out the Russian president. “Now.”  
Vasili dropped his arm, and Donald, visibly relieved, strode forward to join Vlad. The Russian put his arm around the American, and they brushed past Vasili. As they passed - swiftly, almost disdainfully - there came a thickly-accented whisper in the spy’s ear.  
“I am sorry, but I heff to do this. Trust me. It vill all become wery, wery clear... my son.”  
Vasili could only gape as he passed, Tammi shifting uncomfortably as the cold metal of his AR pressed into her face. "Hey, those are my complaining lips, you know," she protested feebly. But he could only stare at the retreating man behind them.  
-  
Mexico City  
March 2018  
It had been two years since the marriage of President Enrique Peña Nieto and Jose Agustín Miguel Santiago Samuel Perez de la Santa Concepción Trujillo Veracruz Batista, performed through a constitutional loophole by which a Latino person illegally returning from America was considered by law a third gender, marriageable by men and women alike, or both at the same time, if they really wanted. The couple relaxed on deck chairs by Enrique’s luxurious pool, flinching now and again at the sound of gunshots. Jose casually slid his thumb to a button on his chair and pressed down, switching on an extravagant fountain display that didn’t really drown out the noise. It looked really nice, though.  
They stayed that way for a while - reclining in the sun, eyes closed, listening to the splashing of the fountain, until Jose sat up.  
“What are we doing, Enrique?”  
His husband followed suit, yawning and pushing himself up until he was sitting too. “Hm?”  
"What are we _doing_?" Jose's eyes met Enrique's, brown and imploring. "When I married you, it was all - you know - heat, fire, vengeance, getting back at Donald. Now I feel like I don't have any of that. It's like I've forgotten why we even got together."  
Enrique took a minute to consider his words, tossing them around in his head, thinking. He stood abruptly. "You're right, Jose. You're right. We musn't forget our purpose here."  
Jose smiled. "Thank you, Enrique. Now..." He laced his fingers through the President's. "Come on."  
With that, the two turned to head back into Enrique's mansion, plots already hatching in their minds.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Vasili races to discover the truth before it's lost forever, what are Enrique and Jose plotting? And behind the scenes, what are the libertarians planning? What are libertarians, really? Why? Also, why did it take me like 3, 4 months to write 1100 words? Where's the sense


End file.
